


Stop Making Sense

by fauxpromises



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Drabbles, F/M, Gen, Light Angst, Some Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-23
Updated: 2015-09-25
Packaged: 2018-03-31 06:09:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3967354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fauxpromises/pseuds/fauxpromises
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You may ask yourself—well, how did I get here?</p><p>(A small set of themed one-shots on dad!Spy.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Uh Oh, Love Comes to Town

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to be a small collection of ficlets, mostly under 1k words apiece, each inspired by a Talking Heads song. Chapters will be titled with the song they were inspired by.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Song: [Uh Oh, Love Comes to Town](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zi9s1gPmR7g)

_Jet pilot gone out of control, ship captain run aground_  
_Stockbroker make a bad investment when love has come to town...  
_

* * *

 

A crawling fear ran down his spine as he watched her carefully unfold the yellowing pages, stopping every few moments to take a longer look at some of them.

"Oh my _God_. I've looked for somethin' like this for—ages, I mean, I'm talkin' _years_." She chuckled a bit, eyes darting up to meet his admittedly sheepish expression. The Frenchman made sure it rapidly transitioned to unimpressed confidence when her focus turned to him.

Quickly her happiness took a turn toward concern, and she scrutinized his indifference with a look that he almost squirmed under. The same question as always, of course. He could have mouthed it as she said it if he hadn't known better than that.

"How much did you _spend_ on this? Old books in this nice of condition ain't easy to come by, not anywhere near here, anyhow," she added sharply. "Y'don't need to spend all this on things like this."

"Things for you?" he returned smoothly, trying to maintain the visage of self-assuredness that this girl kept chipping away at. "And—why _not_ , exactly?"

She looked down at the gift again, her face thoughtful. It happened to be some kind of atlas, filled with dozens of pictures of maps from different countries and time periods. Most importantly, however, was the fact that this marked the first more personal present he had offered. Sure, she always loved the flowers and little trinkets, but once he had wheedled her interests out, only _then_ did it feel like a truly thoughtful gesture.

" _Because_ , Rey," she finally replied, gently closing the book. "I already get my share of the work we do. 'Sides, _you_ do most of it anyway. I ought to be gettin' thirty percent at best, much less half. I'm just for show, after all."

He rolled his eyes elaborately. "And I've told _you_ a thousand times, _Kathryn_. We have this conversation once a week _minimum_. I'll spend my money on whatever I choose to, or _whomever_. I'm quite well off as it is."

Her hand slid upward to rub at her other arm, still appearing peeved. She seemed to be peering up through the top of the tree above them, the summer sun becoming mild as the hot afternoon faded into evening. When his fingers touched tentatively on her shoulder, she remained uncharacteristically impassive.

"And as far as being 'for show,'" he added, his accent becoming more pronounced as it always seemed to when she got him irritated. "You still don't see how valuable you are. It isn't just that you're beautiful—"

He nearly bit his tongue. A lot of words described him, but forthcoming wasn't one of them. She had him running circles around _himself,_ and that was a noteworthy feat. The woman managed a small smile at this, somewhat melancholy, and he speculated that she thought he was feeding her a line.

And he didn't quite know anymore if that was really what he wanted her to believe of him.

"It's not just your _feminine looks._ You have a way of catching people off guard." The irony of the statement had him feeling almost bitter. "I envy you that."

She glanced over at him, a gaze that made him feel caught and dizzy once more.

" _You_ think _I'm_ better than you at somethin'?"

"I—well." He waved his hand dismissively. "I suppose."

"And you _mean_ it? Even the beautiful part?" One delicate hand had come up to grab firmly at his tie, leaning in until their noses almost touched.

Amusement seemed to fill her eyes at the slight amount of heat that he felt in his face at her sudden but ultimately familiar forwardness.

He only smirked, making a sly reach for her wrist to grasp before it could pin his chest, right through his heart.

" _Absolutely_."

And he officially had _no idea_ what had gotten into him.


	2. Life During Wartime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Song: [Life During Wartime](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VAKo10CYS-4)

_High on a hillside, the trucks are loading,_  
_Everything's ready to roll_  
_I sleep in the daytime, I work in the nighttime,_  
_I might not ever get home..._

* * *

The corners of the page curled and warped as the candle flame spread across the paper surface, erasing the words on it forever. It was just as well, he knew. There would have been no way to relay this message, of course, because its destination was simply too valuable to ever risk compromising.

This was how it had always been for over a decade, fast approaching two. The faceless assassin lit a cigarette on the flame before extinguishing it, content to sit in the darkness of the unfamiliar room while he enjoyed his only reliable habit in silence. It had become a ritual he allowed himself now and again, though nowadays he was lucky if he could simply get a few hours of sleep and a reasonably safe place to stay. After all, whenever he took these little jobs working on the right side of the law, he found himself in tenfold more danger than any petty hit on a rival mobster.

Just one letter a week. He was certain he could write a page every day, quite easily in fact, but he couldn't lose his focus on the work ahead of him. One letter, no names, not even for the brief amount of time that it would exist for before he condemned it to the fire. There always seemed to be an underlying apology in the words he scrawled out, and if he had some way of comparing them through the months, he had no doubt that this fact became more apparent with each one he wrote.

That happened to be at least _one_ of the reasons he was glad that they would never reach his wife. She hated seeing guilt on his face, a face he most often kept either impassive or insufferably confident. Those expressions she did not mind, whereas the _guilt—_ that was something she smelled on him like a bloodhound.

He smirked as he exhaled, the tendrils of smoke nearly invisible in the blackness. Maybe the anger it caused was because she knew exactly why he would always torment himself with regret. He was an informant, hit man, double crosser if the need arose, and occasionally still a skilled thief when the circumstances favored it. But he just wasn't a _good_ man, not in any conventional sense of the word, and why _—_ _why_ did she still protect him and all of his secrets as though he was?

In various forms, he had asked this question a dozen times in these secret little letters. Sometimes he had posed it in his own language, frustrated with the inelegance of hers. English was blunt and honest, much like she was, and he preferred to use words that carefully skirted the issue when it came to this. He wanted to apologize in a million words rather than a few.

And with every apology she would finally laugh, her irritation with his remorse replaced with genuine amusement. Then a kiss, short but tender, and her arms around him said _I missed you_ in all but words. _  
_

Just the thought of her warmth sent a brief shiver through him. He would find himself alone with these thoughts often, when his fears of a death in obscurity became most tangible. He had to return. There was no other option he would consider.

He swept the tattered ashes to the floor and snatched the waiting briefcase from his bed, carefully concealed Russian secrets tucked inside.

Business was waiting for him.


	3. Memories Can't Wait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Song: [Memories Can't Wait](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VJu-IABeCws)

_Take a walk through the land of shadows_  
_Take a walk through the peaceful meadows_  
_Try not to look so disappointed_  
_It isn't what you hoped for, is it?_

* * *

 

“So...what's it like? Bein' dead, that is.”

The slight flinch in his face caused her to almost regret saying it, despite the fact that it had been mostly a wry joke. The spy only faltered for a moment, however, before a faint smile appeared on his face. He shrugged, taking a drag from his cigarette.

“Hardly different than before, I suppose. A matter of semantics.” His arm around her hips beneath the covers, he seemed to pull her in a fraction closer. He chuckled as she rested her head on his shoulder. “It's merely official now, don't you think?”

She laughed quietly in response, attempting a casual demeanor. Internally, however, she kicked herself for even breaching the topic, even if it was a spur of the moment comment. This had to be the first time in at least a month and a half since she had seen him, much less had some personal time to spend. And here she was bringing up one of the most painful decisions of his life.

After all, even the setup had been ideal for a romantic night. He had knocked at her bedroom window this time, making an unexpected appearance at their home. He was not expected back for at least another few weeks, but business had seen to it that he was in the locality for a brief time, and he took full advantage of it. Coming in through the front door unexpected was not something he would ever startle her with.

She had been bit surprised to see him there, and the explanation equally amusing—the slightly abashed scoffing before he finally came clean. Memories of his were not always enough to keep a man sane, as he had delicately put it. Just the sound of her voice and some trifling conversation would be enough. And though this night was not a night of passion, it was one of something equally important. Some quiet time together in the empty house, with the boys away at their cousins' as they often were on Saturday nights.

He knew to time his appearances carefully now. A stranger in the home that he should be sharing with her, she thought bitterly.

“I went to the bank yesterday,” she began tentatively. Might as well finish this topic as long as it had already been approached. “Everything's like you said. Account's in my name, balance is spot on. It's more than enough to take care of us for long time to come, if anything should _actually_ happen to'ya.”

Now that he was no longer around as often, she would be assuming almost exclusive control of their finances. Clean money, safe money—as it always was by the time he got it to her. He would supplement it with earnings as they were accumulated, no doubt, but it would allow him to keep his distance when need be. Already he had rented a small apartment nearby for staying in part-time, and she had tried to be hopeful that perhaps it wouldn't be so bad after all.

But he was silent.

“It's only really until our youngest is off to school, and as they get older, I'm sure they'll be out and about a lot more,” the woman began again, toying with his collar. “And we'll be gettin' weekends together—no questions asked. Y'already know my sister thinks you're into some kind of confidential government work—I mean, it's half true. Her kids love our boys, and she'll take 'em over there as much as she and her husband can put up with.”

The Frenchman chuckled, the ember of his cigarette flaring. He might as well have been crying, with the sentiments she could detect on his face.

He brushed a lock of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. Affectionate, but still not quite himself. “I'm not angry, Kathryn. And I know. But if I'm going to be dead to my sons, at least allow me to properly mourn it.”

She sighed, rolling her eyes. He was playing this up a bit, that much she did know. But they both had made this decision with full awareness of the alternative. His work was simply too complicated and dangerous to explain to the boys, and God forbid he did get himself killed one day, it would be much more devastating to children old enough to be attached to him, to fully understand what death meant.

Not to mention the other fact that they both knew—that he needed his mind on his job at all times. Sentimental ties back home were a major risk, and one he already took because of his relationship with her. More than he would ever admit, it caused him to falter in the face of death. Small hesitations did not always have small consequences.

But that didn't take away from one outstanding fact. Her kids were missing out on a man that she loved more than they could ever know, and one she considered far more worthy of that love than he would ever concede.

And that information? She was not going to hesitate to tell them when they were old enough to understand.

“Better to die a hero, ain't it?” she finally smiled, running her fingers through his hair.

He shook his head, smirking. The sadness was still there, but she caught him examining her face now, studying— _committing to memory,_ he always told her when she asked why he was looking at her that way.

One glance at the revolver that rested at their bedside, just behind her in his vision, and his smile became almost humble. If there was anything that she believed to be true, it was that he used his means for an end, _their_ end, and no matter what opinion he held of himself, that was enough for her.

Unconvinced, he merely tapped his cigarette into the ashtray.

“A hero indeed.”


	4. Houses in Motion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Song: [Houses in Motion](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k96zk09uyjU)

_And as we watch him digging his own grave_  
_It is important to know that was where he's at_  
_He can't afford to stop...That is what he believe_  
_He'll keep on digging for a thousand years._

* * *

 

“All right. What is this _mood_ you're in?”

The sound of the Sniper beside him turning down the radio jerked him out of his reverie, eyes briefly falling shut in irritation. Of course the bushman would insist on prying.

So much for a quiet ride to go pick up some cigarettes. The lack of nicotine in his blood for close to a day now already had him ready to go at someone's throat, and the throat beside him would do just fine in a pinch.

The deadpan glance he threw at his driver didn't quite hit the mark, as the Australian only chuckled.

“Not still moping about last week, are you?” he prodded again, provoking a slightly more hateful stare from the passenger's seat.

“You should have told me an interrogation would come with the ride, Mundy. I would have taken my own car—at least it doesn't reek of old Chinese food.”

“Easy, mate. I reckon you wanted company for a reason, even if you're gonna act like a complete wanker about it.”

A huff of aggravation, but the Spy said nothing. Whether or not he enjoyed a bit of company now and then, it absolutely did not imply that he wanted to share any of his problems.

He really wished the Sniper wasn't so damn easy to open up to sometimes. His disarming personality had a way of making him feel like his troubles need not always go unspoken, and in truth that was a major liability.

“So, which one of 'em is gettin' to you now? The boy or his mother?”

At this, the Frenchman could not help but snort. If the other man wanted to talk about it, he had little will left to do anything but indulge it.

“The biggest problem among the three of us is myself, because I'm wholly unable to _stop making it worse_.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the wry smile reappearing on the Sniper's face. He wished for a moment to punch it in again, exactly as he had the last time they discussed this topic.

“Oh, you mean like _'off to visit your mother'?_ ”

The glare of venom had returned. “I'm never going to hear the end of it once he tells her of _that_. I suppose if a man is going to make an enemy out of _everyone_ he cares for, it might as well be done thoroughly.”

The Sniper seemed to consider this for a moment before he shook his head shortly. “It'll blow over eventually. If she's your girl, she'll forgive you sooner or later.”

Again the Spy chuckled, but it was mirthless. “The boy won't.”


End file.
